


Hot and Cold

by whatabadchoice



Series: Tuesdays [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, hotel au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatabadchoice/pseuds/whatabadchoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s getting really late. It’s Tuesday and Castiel can’t help but glance at the clock again. Eleven thirty is usually the latest that Dean walks through the lobby, but Castiel has already finished the audit and it’s nearing half past midnight.</p><p>Castiel isn’t worrying. He’s just… <em>intrigued</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot and Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is really not edited and also written entirely at work while trying to train someone idk man my life is a nightmare I promise it'll be smutty soon (probably not though I'm a liar I wouldn't trust me) ok bye time to go die of sleep

MARCH 6TH

It’s getting really late. It’s Tuesday and Castiel can’t help but glance at the clock again. Eleven thirty is usually the latest that Dean walks through the lobby, but Castiel has already finished the audit and it’s nearing half past midnight.

Castiel isn’t worrying. He’s just… _intrigued_.

Anyway, he barely has time to think about it. There’s a music festival in town and the lobby isn’t quite as quiet as it usually is. In fact, after a long night of drunk patrons and dissatisfied customers, a girl wanders over to the small market area to peruse the items as her friends attempt to make a new reservation with Castiel.

“So we’re like, leaving, but we don’t wanna. Is it cheaper to reserve through booking dot com?”

Castiel takes a deep breath in order to keep from growling. He has explained it twice before already, and despite his wandering thoughts about Mr. Smith, he is losing his patience fast.

“Ok. Sir, like I said, it is 240 for the queen bed, or 260 for the two doubles. You are in a two double bed room. If you would like to book through booking dot com, you may, but it is exactly the same price as here.”

It’s nearing the end of his shift and Castiel’s patience is wearing thin. 

“But it says it’s twenty dollars cheaper,” the guy with the sunglasses on replies. He smells pungent, and his smile is slow as he leers at the girl in the market… who is _not wearing clothes_. Dear God, Castiel’s head feels like it might burst.

“Maybe you should consider making this decision when you are in a better mindset,” Castiel replies drily, and turns to the woman who is standing in the lobby without pants or a shirt on. “Excuse me, miss? I…” Castiel bites his lip. He hates himself for saying it, but she cannot be in the lobby in her underwear, regardless of his own free thinking, he knows Crowley would not approve of such indecency if it meant losing their higher paying guests. “I need you to be wearing a shirt and pants when you’re in the lobby.” Looking down at her feet, he sighs. “And shoes. You need shoes to be here.”

The fluorescent clad group is laughing now, one of them even trying to clap Castiel on the back for his comment. Between the guilt and the annoyance at their disrespect in the first place, it’s all Castiel can do not to snap at the hand proffered to him.  
“He’s right, dude, we should do this in the morning I can’t fucking _think_ right now bro,” Sunglasses says, giggling still through his words. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I know, right? Fuckin’ stellar tonight…” one of his buddies replies. They start to leave without so much as another word to Castiel, who closes the window for a new reservation with a sigh. 

Their cacophonous laughter is still fading when the phone rings. Castiel answers it, glaring.

“Front desk, Castiel speaking,” he says in a harried voice.

Castiel’s fingers are white on the receiver as he attempts to melt the phone with his eyes. He reads the screen.

_Oh._

The person on the other line attempts to say hello, but instead launches into a coughing fit.

“Sir?” Castiel asks uncertainly. The coughing continues. “Mr. Smith, are you alright?” 

The coughing subsides a little, long enough for Castiel to hear a raspy voice.

“Sorry?” he feels bad asking the man to repeat, but he can’t hear him over the soft hum of the refrigerator.

“Told you to call me Dean,” Mr. Smith replies softly, and Castiel’s bad mood suddenly lifts just imagining the man’s cheeky grin.

“What can I do for you tonight?” Castiel asks. He can’t quite keep the note of concern out of his voice. 

“Could I,” Mr. Smith cuts off, coughing again. “Sorry to ask, I--”

Castiel rolls his eyes fondly. This man is clearly suffering and yet he worries about bothering the staff.

“Mr. Smith, I would be happy to assist you,” Castiel interjects. The man makes a frustrated groan on the other side of the line.

“Could I just get a blanket? Please?” he spits out finally, barely audible. “S-so cold.” 

Castiel’s stomach sinks.

God, he just gave the last blanket away to a group of teenagers claiming to be four in the room when Castiel highly suspected that they were in fact six. 

Undeserving bastards.

And this was always the worst part. Disappointing guests is Castiel’s least favourite part of working at this hotel, especially when the hotel is at fault. No more blankets in a _hotel_. It’s _embarrassing_.

“Um,” Castiel replies, guilt already pooling in his gut. “We don’t… There are no more blankets.”

Pause.

God, this is uncomfortable. Even for Castiel, who is used to uncomfortable social situations, even sort of revels in the awkward sound of people wondering what to say, this is positively mortifying. What kind of hotel doesn’t have blankets? He suspects Mr. Smith is about to ask the same question.

“Oh,” comes the raw voice instead. “Okay. Sorry.”

Before Castiel can react or offer sheets or do anything at all, Mr. Smith hangs up. Cas is thrown, torn between guilt and empathy, wondering what he can do for his favourite guest who sounds incredibly sick.

He is so distraught that he barely hears Ruby, the morning shift receptionist, walk in with her cash.

“Aren’t you going to close your shift, Castiel?” she asks haughtily, while Castiel stands staring at the phone in anguish. Ruby likes to have mornings to herself and abhors Castiel. He’d never quite understood her hatred, but Castiel was always good at letting things go.

Castiel chooses not to respond. It’s best to pick one’s battles when it comes to Ruby. Instead, he mechanically closes his shift and heads to the back to finish up.

Counting his cash is tedious. He barely ever has to do it, seeing as night shifts rarely involve many transactions, but the volley of teenage hooligans that raided his market leave him recounting his deposit as he distractedly tries to calculate. 

Miraculously, he finishes in the fifteen minutes it takes for Ruby to start her shift. He can’t stop thinking about Mr. Smith though and his raspy voice. He’s obviously sick. Probably has a fever if he is asking for an extra blanket. And then the way he had just hung up on Cas…

Fuck it.

Castiel shrugs his trench coat on over his shirt and tie, grabbing his sweater from the back room. Instead of putting it on, he bundles it up under his arm and heads toward the garage. 

“Taking a car today, Castiel?” Ruby asks. She’s just snooping. Castiel doesn’t have a car, everyone knows that, but he isn’t about to let Ruby get to him.

“Charlie’s giving me a ride,” Castiel lies. He knows Charlie drives a beat up old beatle, however, and he hopes Ruby hasn’t seen her leave already. Her Beta nose probably can’t smell how nervous he is, but she isn’t blind either. He doesn’t stick around to find out, instead ducking into where the coffee and hot water is dispensed for clients throughout the day. He fills a cup and grabs some tea bags, walking as confidently as he can to the parking basement entrance.

Castiel makes his way to maids room, where he knows the cameras will catch him going in. Then, steeling himself, he slips into a service elevator and punches in Mr. Smith’s floor, holding his breath. 

This is fine. He’s just helping out a guest. Nothing more.

His heart is beating erratically by the time he exits the elevator and he can’t tell if it’s due to bending the rules or worrying about Mr. Smith’s wellbeing. Somehow the idea of him freezing to death with parched lips and fevered skin has wriggled itself into Castiel’s mind and no amount of rationalization can assuage his concern. 

They didn’t have _blankets_. This is just a normal response to not being able to fulfill a guest’s request. It’s above and beyond. It’s Service So Memorable.

The elevator comes to a silent stop at the floor and Castiel considers pressing garage and forgetting the whole thing. The sound of Mr. Smith’s cough echoes in his brain and he finds himself moving forward and out of the elevator. Just to check on him.

The knock of Castiel’s knuckle on the door is too loud in the stuffy corridor, Castiel can feel his palms sweating as he waits for the response.

There’s a shuffle and some mumbling, then the sound of someone opening the peephole. The door opens almost immediately to a very disheveled looking Mr. Smith.

“Cas?” he asks confusedly. His voice cracks on the syllable and he falls into another coughing fit.

“Mr. Smith… I…” Castiel is hit by a smell of omega in distress so strong it makes his teeth ache. “Oh. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you might have company. I brought…” Cas trails off, feeling idiotic all over again.

Dean had an omega with him. It smelled like a relative, the scent so near how Dean smelled at the end of the day, Castiel couldn’t be sure… But he took a step back in respect because whoever’s scent it was, it was breathtaking. 

Not surprising. If Dean had an omega sibling in town or some kind of cousin, it’s no wonder they smell even more enticing than their Alpha brother. 

Mr. Smith’s eyes fall to Castiel’s hands, where the sweater is bunched awkwardly with the tea bags and the cup of hot water.

“You brought me tea.”

“Yes,” Castiel affirms lamely. “Which I now realize was totally uncalled for. You were probably tending to… you were probably busy. I apologize. I will leave you to rest.” 

“No!” Mr. Smith croaks in protest, and Castiel pauses in his hasty retreat.

“I…” Mr. Smith says haltingly. He seems uncomfortable and Castiel would very much like to go back in time. “Thank you. This is very sweet.”

Castiel blushes and hands him the cup and the tea, shoving the sweater into his arms as well.

“I know we didn’t have blankets so I thought….” 

Mr. Smith’s eyes widen at the large piece of clothing in his hands.

“Is this your… sweater?” Mr. Smith nearly whispers, but Castiel is stuck on the way his fingers stroke Castiel’s sweater in an almost reverent manner. 

“Get some rest,” Castiel says, this time pushing the sweater further into his arms. Mr. Smith slumps at the words. “You said you were cold, and I am very sorry the hotel is not able to accommodate you, but I have written a note for housekeeping so that the matter is tended to and in the meantime I thought you should be comfortable.”

Castiel is rambling, he knows, but he can’t help it. Mr. Smith is holding the sweater close to himself now, and Castiel could swear he sees him inhale.

Well.

If Castiel smells good to him, there’s nothing wrong with that…

“Thank you,” Dean rasps again, and it reminds Castiel of the lump in his pocket. 

“Also,” Castiel adds, blushing darker. “I brought you this.”

“Hold on,” Dean says, turning to put the cup down on a side table and lifting his arms up and through the sweater. Castiel tries his best to ignore the pride boiling in his gut at the sight of Dean in his oversized fleece. 

“I meant to give it to you at the desk, when you came by on a Tuesday sometime, but it might actually benefit you now…” Castiel takes out the small mason jar of honey he collected last week. He had been working up the nerve to give it to him for about a week now and is glad for the excuse to do it in private. Well, in the hall of an incredibly delicious smelling room. Castiel is also quite glad for the bulky nature of his overcoat, considering.

“Is this honey?” Mr. Smith asks, and the genuine affection in his eyes is incredibly disarming. Castiel has to look away quickly at the effect of the smell and his green eyes.

“Ah, well, thank my bees, not me!” Castiel says and Mr. Smith frowns.

“Uh, okay, thank you?” he says uncertainly, and Castiel mentally berates himself.

Worried he might not be able to stay away a moment longer, Castiel begins to turn.

“Thank you,” Mr. Smith says again, grabbing Castiel by the wrist. His inner Alpha rages at the control, but Castiel revels in it. The way Mr. Smith grips him speaks of strength under the shy exterior and Castiel is already imagining pinning the man against the wall to scent his exposed neck. His toes curl at the thought of pouncing now, licking a stripe up his skin and making sure everyone knows that Mr. Smith is _his_.

God, it’s been years since Castiel’s been this worked up over someone, if ever at all. Maybe his first knot, but even then, he couldn’t feel his muscles tensing, his canines lengthening at the mere thought of another man. Much less an Alpha. Maybe it was the Omega scent in the air mixed with the way Castiel’s sweater hung off his tall frame… 

Castiel smiles politely, attempting to hide his embarrassment with a nod and a chuckle. 

He doesn’t look back when he walks away, but finds himself rubbing his wrist when Mr. Smith’s touch burns him.


End file.
